


To Walk Among the Dreams of the Dead

by Khyeili



Category: The Hobbit (2012), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-04
Updated: 2013-06-30
Packaged: 2017-11-28 16:37:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/676566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Khyeili/pseuds/Khyeili
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thorne, Fielding, and Killian, part of a small company of archaeologists in the process of excavating an ancient Khazâd civilization, discover the tombs of the last dwarves of the line of Durin.  But they soon find that they have unearthed far more than expected.  Modern-ish AU</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Empty Halls and Hollow Tombs

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry for the lame summary. This takes place in a universe where Middle-Earth is the same as our Earth, and the events that take place in LotR and the Hobbit happen several thousand years before the modern day, more or less. I have a lot more planned, happy reading!
> 
> Also, just so you know, I have a tendency to go back and edit things (grammar, word choice, even sometimes info/facts) quite a bit!

Dawn breaks silently over the camp, light filtering in through the thin material of their tents.  Birds chirp and squirrels chatter in the forest, and the tents' inhabitants begin to stir.

One man, eyes bleary from sleep, nudges the adjacent sleeping bag.

"Hey, hey Fielding."

The sleeping bag groans.

The man sits up, yawning, and stretches his arms.  He ties his dark hair back into a loose ponytail, just enough to keep it out of his eyes.  He kicks the sleeping bag, eliciting an angry yelp from the mass of blanketed nylon.

"Come on Fee, we're supposed to start excavating the tombs today."  Pulling on a thick, dark blue sweater over his long johns, he adds, "We need to be ready by five, it's already..." He checks his watch, "four thirty."

The sleeping bag half-rolls away, only a flash of golden hair visible from the opening.

"You're the one who fucking kept me up 'till midnight with your goddamn snoring, Killian.  And so I am going to stay here until I damn well please."  Fielding promptly curls in on himself.

Laughing, Killian grabs the end of the sleeping bag, violently yanking it away, leaving Fielding gasping in the suddenly-cold air.  "You fucking prick!"  He shouts, and Killian cackles, promptly finding himself with a face full of pillow.

After some grumbling (and a gratuitous amount of coffee), the two exit their tent, dressed in warm sweaters, thick scarves, and climbing boots.  The other members of their team are already waiting, faces impatient.

"Finally you two show up.  We need to head out immediately, so we can make it back from the tombs by sunset."  The head archaeologist growls.

"Sorry, Thorne."  They say in unison.

He gives them a curt nod.  "Alright, move out."  He barks.  The group, armed with picks and shovels, heads toward the entrance into the mountain.

Killian gazes at the great arches with appreciation.  They cleared enough of the dirt and rock to make a small passageway through, though they speculated that the entrance was much grander than its current appearance.  He hopes to himself that, one day, they can restore the true glory of the civilization.  But he knows it would take many years of reconstruction and maintenance, as the place had been uninhabited for thousands of years.

In fact, he's surprised that it's lasted the test of time so well.

As they enter the darkness, they switch on their headlamps and flashlights, illuminating their way enough to avoid fallen rubble and deep cracks in the floor.  Fielding looks up, the sheer vastness of the great halls daunting and overwhelming.  He suddenly feels very small among the enormous statues, their faces staring endlessly on, hands clenched on battle-axes.

They press on.

At long last, they enter the corridor that leads to the burial chamber.  They grab their picks and begin working away the massive stones that block the hall, the sound of metal striking rock echoing through the caverns.  Their faces gain a sheen of sweat as they continue working, breaking down the rocks into moveable chunks, hauling them away from the entrance.  They work in relative silence, quietly discussing trivial matters among themselves.

Killian, however, is excited beyond belief.

"What do you think's in there, Fee?  Maybe that's where they've got their royalty buried!"  Fielding laughs and brings the pick down, cracking the stone down the middle.  Killian grabs one piece and drags it to the side.

"I dunno.  Though I doubt we'll be able to discern any of the remains, they'll probably just be dust by now."  He picks up the other hunk of rock, setting it down beside the other.  "You must remember that it’s been what, three? Four thousand years since this place was inhabited?"

Killian rolls his eyes.  "I know, I know.  Just, wouldn't it be exciting?  This was one of the greatest Khazâd civilizations in all of history, and legend says that one of the fiercest dragons lived here in the Third Age.  Think of what we could find down here!"  He waves his pick in growing excitement, nearly striking himself in the face.

"I'm excited too, Kee.  Just don't make me do all the work!" Fielding nods toward the remaining pile of stone, and Killian grasps another chunk of rubble, dragging it backwards.

Hours pass, until finally they clear a pathway large enough for the group to pass through.  They enter the burial chamber, helping each other through the small passageway.

They promptly fall silent.

The hall is beautiful beyond compare, untouched by the slow wear of time.  They stare in dumbstruck awe at the flawless architecture, great green-grey pillars reaching for the ceiling so far above.  The ceiling is decorated with images carved from hundreds of different shades and types of rock.  It is astoundingly colorful, depicting grand battles and feasts, all intertwined into a huge, angular pattern.  On the far wall lies the largest stained-glass window the company has ever seen.  In shades of deep blue and green, it shows a man, beautiful and powerful, holding a hammer high above his head.  Below him are seven smaller figures, all wielding weapons distinctly Khazâd.

The stained-glass window casts a solemn, hazy glow upon the tombs that lie before them.  They switch off their headlamps and flashlights.

Thorne looks as if he is about to cry.

He steps forward, breaking the hypnotic spell the grand hall had cast on them.  He walks quietly up to one of the tombs, examining the detailed script upon the pale stone.

"Everyone fan out.  Take notes and photographs if you find anything interesting, and be careful not to break anything.  Anything in here is several thousand years old, and must be handled with care.”

The group nods, some heading towards other tombs, others to the stained-glass window, while some gaze upwards at the intricate designs upon the ceiling.

Killian and Fielding head towards the end of the hall, eyes flicking over the tombs they pass, all carved of white stone.

They reach the enormous stained-glass window.  Below it lie three tombs, almost glowing in the soft light.  The center one is raised slightly from the other two, an additional step between it and the floor.  Killian and Fielding approach them with growing trepidation, Killian's earlier excitement ebbing away to a growing sense of uneasiness.

They stand in silence, a deep sense of loss washing over them.  Fielding reaches out, hesitating slightly, and slides his hand over the pale stone casket.

The soft thudding of hiking boots alerts them of Thorne's approach, Baldwin, Oriel, and Darwin trailing behind.  Fielding and Killian part for him and Thorne stops before the grey-black steps.  He circles the center tomb, tracing over the engraved runes upon its surface.

Thorne beckons to Oriel with one hand. "Can you translate these?"

Oriel nods and scrambles up to the steps.  "I can try.  But first..." he digs through his backpack, pulling out a well-used digital SLR camera, looping the strap around his neck.  He quickly takes a few photographs of each tomb from all sides, and one of each slab of stone on the top, making sure to capture the runes.  Letting the camera hang by his neck, he pulls out a battered notebook filled with added pages and flags.  He flits through it silently while his hands, quick and flighty, skirt over the intricate lettering.

Baldwin and Darwin sit, pulling out a pipe and a whittling knife respectively, entertaining themselves as Oriel works at the script.  Fielding looks up, examining the grand artistry upon the ceiling.  There are five distinct groups in combat, wielding swords, bows, axes, and shields alike.  Killian turns to him, and follows his gaze to the ceiling.  He points to one cluster of soldiers.

"Those are the dwarves, right?"

"Probably.  They're shorter than the other ones, and they've all got beards."

Killian laughs, pointing at another small group.  "Except for those two!"

Fielding squints.  "Huh.  I thought all dwarves grew them."

"Maybe they were young."

They fall silent.  Their eyes follow the angled lines and muted colors above them.

Killian grows impatient, and turns back to the tombs.

"Oriel, have you finished with the runes yet?"

"I'm trying!"  The man exclaims in exasperation.  "The Khazâd were pretty intent on keeping Khuzdul a secret, and I've only got a couple sources on what their runes mean!"

He huffs, running his hand over the runes carved into the stone of the left tomb.  "I think...this one says, 'Here lies Kíli, son of Dís, sister of Thorin.'"  Oriel moves to the right tomb.  "And this one is pretty similar...it says, 'Here lies Fíli, son of Dís, sister of Thorin.'"  He reaches the middle tomb, pausing a moment to finish translating the runes.  "'Here lies Thorin, son of Thráin, son of Thrór...King Under the Mountain.'"

"So this  _is_  where they buried their royalty..." Killian breathes, eyes panning over the tombs before him.

Oriel nods, idly fingering the pages of his book.  "These must have been the last of the great line of Durin, if the stories are correct."

Thorne puts his hand on the head of the center tomb.  "We'll need to take some samples.  We can carbon date them back at the lab."  He gestures towards the other two.  "Be as careful as possible removing the stones."  He says, a distressed tone entering his voice.  "We must respect the dead."

The company nods, splitting into three groups.  They grip the stones with calloused hands, using all of their strength to lift the heavy slabs of stone from their positions.  They do not budge, at first, and it takes minutes of grunting and struggling until the stones yield.  The groups carefully set the slabs down behind the tombs, gathering around the opened sarcophagi.

"Mostly dust."  Baldwin muses.  "The bodies and any clothing would have disintegrated centuries ago."

Oriel takes a few photographs of the contents of each tomb quickly while Thorne removes a package of rubber gloves from his pack.  He pulls on a pair himself before passing the package to Darwin.  "It looks like the metal pieces have survived.  Mark which items correspond to which tomb, seal them, and take them back to camp."

The group nods in assent, and Baldwin passes out plastic bags of varying sizes.  Thorne and Baldwin move to the center tomb, while Darwin and Oriel leave the outer tombs to Fielding and Killian.  They take small amounts of the dust from each stone casket, pouring them into the plastic bags, carefully marking them before setting them aside.

Thorne removes a beautiful stone from the center stone casket, clearing the dust with his hands.  It seems to glow in the low light in silvery shades of blue and gold.  He stands, transfixed by the stone, turning it over slowly in his gloved hands.  He gently places it in a small plastic bag, marks it, and slides the bag into his pack.

Fielding delicately lifts two twin blades, brushing them off before placing them in separate bags.  To his surprise, even  _more_  weapons were to be found in the tomb; several small knives, what looked to be a pair of miniature throwing axes, and a spiked war hammer.

"There's hardly anything in this one."  Killian laments, holding up a few small pieces of metal.  "You got the exciting one, Fee!"

He laughs.  "If by exciting, you mean _paranoid_."

Thorne holds up a curved blade that shimmers in the light.  He runs a finger down the edge.  "It's still sharp."

Baldwin examines it carefully.  "That's an elvish blade.  I'm surprised a dwarf had one in his possession."

They continue sifting through the tombs, retrieving mostly small embellishments now, such as buckles and beard clasps.  Thorne and Baldwin mark their last bag, pack up, and head back to the entrance, beckoning the other members of the group to follow.

"We'd better head back now if we're to make it back to camp before nightfall.  We'll send out a smaller group tomorrow to take additional samples and photographs."

Killian packs up quickly, swinging his backpack up over his shoulders before running to catch up with Thorne.

Fielding runs his hand one last time through the dust, fingers finding a small square of metal he had missed.  He clears it with his thumb, holding it up to the light.  The engraved design is sharp and angular, the dark and light lines circling in on themselves.  He turns it over, a hardy clasp on the back.

"Fielding!"

He starts, and hastily rejoins the company.

"What'd you find that had you so distracted?"  Killian asks.

"This.  I almost missed it back there."  He opens his palm, revealing the little square of metal.  "It must be a hair clip or something, but the design doesn't match the beard aiglets I found."

"Hey!  I've got one too!"  Killian digs through his bags, pulling one out with an identical clip inside.  "Must have been in style back then, huh?"

Fielding turns the clip over in his fingers, light catching the detailed engraving.

"Yeah, must've been."

The men make their way back through the entrance of the burial chamber, reentering the main corridor.  The sound of their footfalls echoes through the empty halls, and the lights of their headlamps cast eerie shadows in the suffocating darkness.

The Khazâd civilization, long devoid of life and warmth, stands cold, dark, and hollow.  Without the screaming children scampering through unused passageways, the merchants laughing and conversing over glimmering wares, or the miners digging lines of silver and gold into the heart of the mountain, the great kingdom is but an empty crown, ever waiting to be reclaimed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hush, Fielding is a great name.  
> So is Killian.


	2. By the Fiddle and the Flute

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nightclothes means sweatpants and loose shirts. (Thorne's says 'Foxy Grandpa', a gift from Darwin)  
> If you'd like to hear what the song sounds like (as well as my inspiration for the solos), there are links in the end notes! :)

They emerge into the fading light, the sky painted in streaks of fiery red and orange.  The warmth of the sun is well received by the company, having spent long hours in chilled darkness.  They slow their pace somewhat, their bodies casting long shadows across the earth.

By the time they make it back to camp, the sun has set, and the first few stars have begun to appear in the night sky.  They lay their findings on the center table in Thorne’s tent (which is significantly bigger and better-made than the others), and disperse to their respective tents to change into their nightclothes, and to fetch food and cookware for dinner.  Glenn piles twigs and dried grass in the fire pit, and soon (with a little help from the tinderbox) a warm fire blazes at the center of their camp.  The other men emerge from their tents, wielding pots and a wide variety of canned goods.

Fielding brushes dirt from his pan.  “Hey Oriel, are you eating with us?”

“Oh, I’ll be there in a bit.”  He idly fingers the strap around his neck.  “I’ve got to catalogue the artifacts we found today, and package the samples so we can send them off to the lab.”

“Ah, right.  We’ll save some spam for you when you get back.”

Oriel smiles in relief.  “Wow, thanks!  I’d rather not get stuck with peas and spinach again.”

Fielding laughs as Oriel scurries off to Thorne’s tent.  He rejoins the company, now gathered around the fire, and empties his can of chicken noodle soup into his pot, setting it on a heated stone by the edge of the fire.

The group falls into easy conversation, the sound of their voices mingling with the crackle of the fire.  Fielding checks his soup, which upon inspection, is warm enough to eat.  He grabs the spork Killian so kindly gifted him (after stealing his original silverware), and scoops up a mouthful of soup.

Botolf settles down next to Killian, a bright, dimpled smile upon his face.

“Killian, d’ya still have your fiddle with you?”  He holds up his wooden flute, worn smooth from use and age.  “I think we’d like some music tonight.”

“Of course I do!  Hey Fee, you wanna join?”

Fielding sets down his soup and stands, brushing off his pants.  “I wouldn’t miss an opportunity to one-up you, Kee.”

Laughing, they run to their tent, returning with two near-identical cases.  They flick open the clasps, removing two fiddles, both shades of deep mahogany.  Killian immediately positions his, running his bow over the strings lightly, while Fielding runs a small block of rosin up and down his bow.  Botolf plays a few steady notes on his flute, and Fielding and Killian tune their fiddles to him.  They play a few experimental notes before launching into a bright, upbeat folk tune.

The others laugh, clapping out a steady beat with their hands and feet.  For a few measures, the melodies of the flute and fiddles weave and dance together in a short give-and-take as they work out a melody.  As it evens out, Norwood stands, comically brushing off his shirt and puffing out his chest.  He waits a full beat, then begins singing in a throaty, almost wiry tone.

 

"Was a man near twenty-three when I met old Delilah,

Her hair of gold and sweet brown eyes that hardly could deny ya,

She sang so sweetly, that she stole my very heart,

Too bad she also took my wallet for a start!"

 

The company laughs merrily, cheering loudly and patting a smiling Norwood on the back as he seats himself.  Botolf lifts his head from his flute, grinning as he belts out a verse in response in a clear, steady voice.

 

"Hey, hey, darling, the clouds they go away

And the sun will shine on another goddamn day,

The sky may darken as we fill another cup,

And the world will be over by the time we go to sup!"

 

Killian scrapes out a few sour notes as he laughs, but quickly readjusts his fiddle and continues to play, Botolf's flute rejoining the melody.  In the short interlude, Fielding plays a brief descant that dances over a smattering of high notes before settling back into a mirrored harmony with Killian.

Oriel hears the vivacious music outside the tent, and hurries to finish cataloging the artifacts.  His handwriting turns quick and angular as he rushes, marking off the last item before tossing his pen down and jogging out to the campfire.  Fielding greets him with a quick smile, and Oriel seats himself beside Dorian.

The music quiets slightly as Burton stands heavily, hands resting on his large girth as he rolls on his heels, fingers drumming to the beat.  He nods, bouncing a bit on his toes, then heartily gruffs,

 

"On a day quite warm and bright I walked down to the park,

And on the hill flew in my face a feisty little lark,

So startled was I, that I lost my foot’s hold,

Tumbling and bumbling, down the earth I rolled!”

 

Roaring laughter fills the air, and the music stutters as Fielding and Killian shake with choked cackles.  Botolf lifts his head again, and this time the whole company joins in on the refrain.

 

“Hey, hey, darling, the clouds they go away

And the sun will shine on another goddamn day,

The sky may darken as we fill another cup,

And the world will be over by the time we go to sup!”

 

Fielding and Killian leap to their feet, still playing their fiddles vigorously.  They sashay around each other, twisting and weaving as they increase their tempo.  The rest of the company clap and stamp their feet, reinforcing a beat that thrums in the air.  The two circle around each other in front of the fire, their shadows flickering and dancing in the light.  They settle there, in the heat of the flames, standing a few feet apart.  Fielding takes over the melody, bow moving rapidly over the strings in a staggered ascension.  He follows the flow of music with his feet, stepping and crossing swiftly and smoothly, a hint of a challenge in his smile.

Killian stands at attention, bow flicking minutely by his side to the beat, a wide grin upon his face as he bounces slightly in anticipation.  As Fielding’s melody descends, he resets his fiddle and jumps forward.  His hands move in a much less controlled manner, bow dancing wildly over the strings.  He kicks and turns, feet twisting and spinning with the same wild abandon as his hands.  The melody is a fierce response to Fielding’s tune, a display of Killian’s competitiveness and skill.  He trills ferociously, his bow a pale blur over the strings as he bends backwards, body perpendicular to the earth and knees nearly touching the ground.  He reaches a frenzied crescendo, leaping up with a shout.  Fielding laughs, clear and ringing, and responds with a renewed vigor in his step.

They flow together like molten fire, engaging in a wild battle of give and take, of push and pull.  Their feet kick and step, twist and turn as if they are afire, never still, never lingering.  They work their way around the flames, melodies shifting until they play in unison, dual harmonies melding together seamlessly.

They plant their feet, facing each other before the fire, playing in a wild accelerando that dances up and down in conjunction with one another.  The company’s clapping and stamping descends into a scattered applause, as the tempo accelerates beyond what they can follow with their hands and feet.

Fielding and Killian fiercely follow each other’s melody at an increasingly frenzied pace, until finally they leap up with a hearty shout, arching backwards with a jerk.  They draw out a single long note as they slowly bend back up, ending with a final short note and a stamp of their feet.  The other men applaud and cheer loudly as the two, panting and sweating, return to the steady rhythm of the original melody.  Botolf joins them, the high notes of the flute flitting over the lower tones of the fiddles.  They re-establish the melody for a few beats, until Botolf stands and lifts his head a final time, the entirety of the company joining him, stamping out punctuation to the last verse.

 

“Hey, hey, darling, the clouds they go away

And the sun will shine on another goddamn day,

The sky may darken as we fill another cup,

And the world will be over by the time we go to sup!”

 

Cheers and elated shouts erupt across the men, the fiery energy of the song still thrumming through their veins.  They settle back down, merrily conversing as they pass around the heated pots, sampling the peas, spam, corn, and soup within them.  Some of the men hum or drum their fingers, still marching to the pulsing beat.

Thorne, holding a pot of carrots, sits down beside Fielding and Killian, offering them a warm smile.

“You two are really quite talented musicians.”  He nods slightly at their fiddles, still resting in their hands.  “When’d you start playing?”

“I picked it up when I was…four?  Five?”  Killian laughs, idly plucking the strings with one hand.  “I’ve always loved the fiddle.  I practically forced my parents to buy me one!  Been playing ever since.”

“I took piano for a couple years in middle school, but I wasn’t really into it.  My mother wouldn’t let me _completely_ stop playing an instrument, so I took up the fiddle.”  Fielding shrugs.  “Killian played for me once or twice, and encouraged me to try it when I dropped piano. I loved the sound, and I even joined a folk group in college.”

Thorne smiles brightly.  “I see!  Well, I’m sure the fiddle is a bit more practical than the harp.”

Fielding and Killian sit in a confused silence until realization dawns on them.

“You play the _harp_?”

Thorne laughs.  “My father was very… _enthusiastic_ about the harp.  He taught me from when I was very small.  It isn’t the most useful of skills, but I do have a small one that I play from time to time.”

“You should play with us tomorrow night!”  Killian claps Thorne on the back, a wide grin upon his face.  “It’s always a ton of fun to integrate different instruments in.”

“Ah... well I’m a bit out of practice, but I’d love to.”  Thorne replies, rubbing his chin.

Botolf holds up an enormous bag of oversized marshmallows.  “Anyone up for dessert?”

The bag is passed around as the company finishes their respective dinners, and Burton gathers sticks.  Each member is given a stick and several marshmallows.  Some simply warm them by the coals, while others thoroughly roast them over the fire, browning them generously.

Killian, however, places the entirety of his supply of marshmallows onto the branches of his stick, places them directly into the fire, and sets them alight.  After they turn a rather alarming shade of black, he pulls them out, blowing out the flames that still lick across the charred marshmallows.

Fielding looks on in mounting horror.

“Kee, what the hell are you doing?”

Killian turns, half a burnt marshmallow in his mouth.  He quickly devours the rest, to Fielding’s disgust.  “Eating?”

“You are a disgrace to the marshmallow gods.  I swear, they’re gonna smite you if you keep that up.”

“Oh, you mean this?”  Killian vigorously shoves the other four blackened marshmallows in his mouth and lets out a muffled roar.  “Tak’ tha’ mawshmawwow gaws!”

Fielding throws himself backwards into the dirt, moaning loudly.  “Oh Kraft, _save me!_ ”

Killian leaps up on the log they had been seated on, wielding his stick as a sword.  “Whar’s y’ gaw nauw Fee?”

“No, please!  Not the marshmallows!”

Fielding rolls away, holding his marshmallows protectively against his chest.  Killian pounces, and the two roll in the dust, struggling over the precious cargo.  Eventually they stop, chests heaving with laughter, Fielding flat on his back with Killian sprawled over his stomach.  Their voices fade into a comfortable silence as they gaze up at the stars, little pinpricks of light scattered across the sky.  Without the light pollution of the cities and suburbs, the stars shine bright and proud, forming swirling patterns of pale blue and white.

The older members of the company pull out worn pipes, filling them with their respective leaves, and light them with twigs from the fire.  They puff quietly, smoke rising in small bursts into the darkness, the dying fire giving them an eerie glow.

Fielding smiles contentedly, eyes following the cloudy form of the Milky Way and mapping out constellations.  When his eyes begin to droop, he gently pats Killian’s face with his hand.

“Hey Kee, get up.  We should go to bed.”

“Unnh...”  Killian groans as he buries his face further into Fielding’s stomach.

“Come on, up you go.”

Fielding pushes himself to his knees, cradling Killian’s head in his hands as he stands.  He picks up Killian’s limp form in his arms, hefting him up to his chest, bridal style.  He walks them to their tent, setting Killian down in his open sleeping bag.  Fielding pulls off his shoes, and sets them by the entrance of the tent.  After untying Killian’s hair, he closes the flap of Killian’s sleeping bag and zips it up.

Killian blearily opens his eyes, looking up at Fielding sleepily.  “Tell me a bedtime story.”  He slurs.

Fielding smiles fondly, kicking off his shoes and settling himself in his own sleeping bag.  He lies on his stomach, chin resting on his hands.  His mind wanders a little, tired from the day’s journey, and soon the words spill forth unbidden.

“Once upon a time, there was a little prince.  He lived in a great castle of rubies and gold that sparkled and shone beyond compare.  He loved to dance and sing, and he spent his days in merriment and joy.  
He was told to wear robes and capes and crowns of heavy stones and gems, but he did not like this.  
One day, he grew tired of the rules and the weight that he carried, and flung off his grand robes and ran.  He ran into the sunlight and felt the wind in his hair and the grass under his feet.  He laughed and sang with the birds and the sun and the mountains as he ran.  
The little prince stood at the edge of the tallest cliff of the highest mountain and sang the song of the sky and the earth and the snowy peaks sang back in ancient voices that groaned and thrummed like earthquakes.  
He leapt from his perch, falling into the heart of the mountain itself, down and down and down until the fires of the earth leapt and danced around him, and never did he stop singing.  The little prince shaped the earth with his hands, rubies and sapphires and diamonds…”

Fielding’s words melt into blurred colors and shapes and sounds that come to life in Killian’s mind.  He feels the wind in his hair and the grass under his feet, and the weaving melody of a familiar tune he cannot recall upon waking.

* * *

Thorne enters his tent, setting his, Killian, and Fielding’s pots into the ‘to be washed’ pile.  He pulls off his shoes and sets them by the entrance of the tent.  Stretching his aching muscles, Thorne walks over to his pack and unties his hair, setting the tie in his duffel bag.  He turns, eyes settling on the shimmering stone upon the center table, thrown hastily atop the other artifacts in Oriel’s hurry.  Thorne pauses, lightly brushing the tips of his fingers across the smooth surface of the stone.  He hesitates a moment, before turning away and setting himself down upon his bedroll.

Thorne exhales, finally relaxing his tired muscles.  He closes his eyes, letting sleep gently lead him away from the world of the waking.  Warmth and comfort greet him like an old friend, and he is content.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is what the song sounds like: http://khyeili.tumblr.com/post/43486301669/i-recorded-the-song-from-to-walk-among-the-dreams  
> The tune is based off of the hoedowns from 'Whose Line is it Anyway?' (gosh I love that show)  
> Inspiration for the solos came from here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FTmOuf_CtKA and http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=baWIvlUpdmA


	3. Sleeping in the Warmth of Day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First off, sorry for the late update! My computer's hard drive gave out on me, and I lost my files. :( Luckily, I had been editing via email, so I had an earlier copy, but I lost much of the outline of the story and I was spending time re-writing that. Hopefully the next chapters will come up faster. :)  
> Long chapter ahead!

Dust swirls in the air, set aglow from streaks of pale blue light, streaming in from the silent dawn.  He tries to trace their patterns, but they shift and twist in ways he cannot follow.

The soft plodding of his feet echo endlessly in the great hall, each step rippling through the stone floors in shades of gold and copper before fading back to grey and silvery white.  The tombs echo back at him with the clang of ancient, broken swords, and the melancholy of old, smiling eyes.

His steps grow heavier with each footfall, but he neither stops nor turns back.  The halls of stone behind him crumble, chunks of debris falling gently into empty darkness, yet all is silent, save for the steady echo of his feet.

He stops before the three tombs, ethereal and undisturbed by the ever-passing seasons.  He stands, the pulsing weight of a hundred thousand fallen soldiers tugging at his legs.  His head swims, the hall blurring in and out of focus, jagged streaks of time shifting like the tearing of cloth as the great stone arches bleed away in silver rivulets.

A tomb calls to him in shades of summer daybreaks and ringing laughter.  He wades through empty echoes and rests his hand against the warm stone.

The dead weight releases its grip and he feels light, like crisp leaves carried by autumn winds.  The stone beneath his hand crumbles into a fine, white dust that ebbs away into nothing.  A shimmering, golden dust lies still within the tomb.  It stirs, shifting back and forth before rising from the white stone.  It floats, glowing in the silver light, and dances to a thrumming tune that resonates with the beating of his heart.  He inhales deeply, and the golden dust coils in lazy, looping patterns in the air, shifting loosely around his body and he breathes in the sunshine of unspoiled youth and ignorant exhilaration.

His feet lightly brush the floor before they lose contact altogether, his body rising above the pale stone.  He floats in the air, weightless above the collapsing rock and stone.  His shirt and sweatpants gently unravel, threads waving delicately in the air as they fall apart.

His skin begins to shimmer, softly crumbling into golden flecks.  He feels lighter and lighter and he can feel the dust _singing_  in his very being, the intertwined pulse humming steadily through his veins.  He exhales contentedly, eyes fluttering shut as he bleeds into the swirling thrum of golden dust.

 

* * *

 

Fielding blinks, and once-vivid reality vanishes into the deteriorating echo of a dream. 

He rubs his eyes, sunlight streaming in through the nylon of their tent.  He sits up on his elbows, head unusually clear, and stares blankly at nothing.  Outside the tent, birds sing in a scattered chorus, fervently greeting the new day.

Fielding, feeling strangely hollow, looks over at the snoring sleeping bag beside him.  Killian lies haphazardly in his bedroll, on his side with his arms splayed out beneath him.

He smiles fondly, and pushes himself up to stand.  Fielding exits the tent, squinting in the light.  The camp appears mostly empty, save for Olynn lounging in the grass, puffing away at his pipe.  He notices Fielding, and lazily adjusts his hearing aid.

“Thorne’s already left with some of the others to finish up in the burial chamber.  He said you two’d want a break.”

Fielding nods, still slightly dazzled from the sunlight.  “Thanks, I’ll tell Killian.”

Olynn smiles, readjusts his hearing aid, and returns to his pipe.

Fielding reenters their tent, zipping the flap closed before plopping back down onto his bedroll.  He lies still for a moment before sharply kicking Killian’s sleeping bag with a barked shout of, “Wake up!”

“-Gaah!!  What, what?!”  Killian screeches, jerking awake violently, eyes wide and half-crazed.

“Go back to sleep, we’re off today.”

Fielding offers a warm smile while Killian simply gapes, his sleep-addled mind blearily making sense of the confusion.  He groans, falling back on his pillow, shooting Fielding a piercing glare.

“You’re a dick.”

Fielding shrugs.  “Shouldn’t have woken me up yesterday.”

Killian lets out a puff of laughter.  “I see, the _lion_  needs his beauty sleep.”

“Damn straight.”

They lie in comfortable silence, both still drowsy from sleep, idly listening to the chirp of birds and the distant trickle of the brook.

“Hey Fee.”

“Yeah?”

Killian shifts in his bedroll, turning to face Fielding.  “You told me a story last night…right?”

“Yeah, I did.”

“How’d it go?  I remember some of the beginning, but I think I fell asleep before the end.”

Fielding wrinkles his brow.  “I don’t know.”  He rubs his chin thoughtfully.  “I don’t remember finishing it.”

Killian nods slowly, setting his head on his hands.  “I dreamed about it.  I was running in the mountains, and like…I don’t know how to describe it, but the mountains were singing to me.”  Fielding laughs, and Killian cracks a smile.  “I know, weird right?  But it was like, the whole world was an orchestra, and everyone had a different part.  And I guess…”  Killian grins, stifling a giggle.  “I guess I sang a duet with the mountain!”

Fielding smiles and shakes his head.  “Damn, Kee, what the hell!”

“Hey, this is your fault!  You ramble like _crazy_  when you’re tired.”  Killian rolls onto his back, staring at the ceiling of their tent.

Fielding inhales deeply, loosely twining his fingers behind his neck, and closes his eyes.

They rest for a few minutes, lazily shaking off the last vestiges of sleep before they get up.  They stretch their tight muscles and exit the tent, not bothering to change their clothes.

Fielding greets Olynn and Bufford, who has joined in sunning himself beside Olynn, quietly whittling a block of wood with his knife.  Killian takes two apples from the basket beside the cool campfire, tossing one to Fielding.  They sit on a log, smooth and dark from age and use, and eat their apples.  Fielding, however, quickly grows tired of the taste and tosses the half-eaten fruit into the compost heap.  Killian, upon finishing his, looks off into the trees.

“Hey Fee, wanna go swimming?  It’s…” he checks his watch. “almost noon, the water’ll be warm enough.”

“Sure, that sounds fun.”  Fielding throws Killian a lopsided grin.  “Trunks, or skinny-dipping?”

Killian laughs loudly.  “When have we ever worn _trunks_?”

“Last time I remember, I hadn’t met you yet.”  Fielding elbows Killian in the side.  “Worst part of my life, by _far_.”

They grin, and set off for the river.  They walk through the forest, scattered sunlight shining through the foliage.  They carefully step over twisted roots and jagged rocks with bare feet, making sure not to wander too far from the path.  Soon, the trees open up to a rocky beach beside the river, which runs deep and swift.  Across the river stands a fairly tall crag, littered with small ledges and cliffs.  Small, spindly trees grow on some of the grassier ledges, their long roots entwined in solid rock.

The water is a deep teal, babbling loudly as it runs over sand and boulders.  They strip off their shirts and sweatpants, Fielding folding his neatly into a pile at the tree line, while Killian throws his on an overlying branch.

Fielding wades in at the beach, cool water tugging at his feet.  He looks over at Killian, and follows his eyes up to one of the lower cliffs.  In an instant, Killian runs into the water, pace slowing as the riverbed grows deeper.  When he can no longer touch the bottom, he switches to a modified breaststroke, keeping his head above water.  He reaches the sheer rock on the other side and grabs onto a low ledge, swiftly pulling himself out of the river.

Fielding watches from the shallows, sifting his hands through the soft sand.  “If you die, I’m going to carve, ‘was a stupid fuck’ onto your headstone.”

Killian looks back over his shoulder as he continues climbing.  “You look like a toddler playing in the kiddie pool!”

“I will shit on everything you love.”

Killian drags himself atop a ledge big enough for him to stand comfortably on, and pushes himself up.  He waves his arms wide, looking down at Fielding sitting in the water by the beach.

He backs up a few steps, mentally preparing himself.  Then, he runs forward and leaps into the air, screaming as he hurtles down to the river below.  With a tremendous splash, Killian hits the water, splattering Fielding head-on.

“Hey!”  Fielding shouts, rubbing the water from his face.  He shakes out his hair, now soaking wet, and settles himself further into the warm sand of the beach.

* * *

 

The world is empty, and yet so full.

There is no sound, no smell, no taste, and his eyes are blurry and hazy in the water.

But he can feel the thrum of the river, the way it flows over boulders, swerves around bends, and catches in the indents at the riverbed.  Even though he is in a relatively still section of the river, (the cliff blocks much of the swift current) he can sense the rush of water nearby.

The pulse hums through his body, and he opens his eyes a bit more.  All he can see are shapes and colors, but they soon grow clearer as he adjusts to the water.

There are smooth, dark boulders scattered on the bottom of the river, which is mostly composed of dirt, sand, and dead leaves.  His feet touch the riverbed, and he looks up at the surface.  The sun and sky shine back at him, rippling gently from the moving surface of the river, casting shimmering rays of light through the water's depths.

His lungs tighten from lack of air, and he pushes off towards the surface, water streaming smoothly through his hair.

Killian surfaces with a gasp, flipping his dark hair out of his face with a jerky shake.

“Geez Kee, you were down there a while.”  Fielding calls, a touch of worry tainting his voice.

Killian shrugs (as best he can while treading water).  “It’s peaceful.”

“Do some yoga, you don’t need to drown yourself.”

Fielding sits up, shaking the sand from his legs, and slides into deeper water.  He swims to Killian, blond hair fanning out behind him.  They both slip beneath the surface, reveling in the feeling of the current tugging at their limbs.

Killian snakes further down into the water while Fielding remains closer to the surface.  Killian turns around, back facing the bottom of the river.  He looks up and sees feathery pillars of light filtering through the water in shades of pale blue and white.  He sees Fielding, hair fluttering in the current, framed by ever-shifting bands of sunlight.  Treading lightly with his hands to keep himself in place, Killian watches threads of golden hair move to the pulse of river on a backdrop of the deep blue sky.  He lazily surfaces, Fielding following a moment later.

Having drifted downstream somewhat, they swim to shallow water, feet just barely touching the rocky bottom.  They wade out of the river and Killian shakes out his hair like a dog.  Fielding laughs and does the same, working out the excess water so it won’t continue to run down his back.  They walk along the boulders, finding a clear area of flat rock in the sun.

They lie bare on the heated rock, enjoying the warm sunlight drying the water and chill from their skin.  The two of them doze contentedly as the birds sing in light, flittering tones, the flowing river providing a deep, thrumming harmony.

Killian turns over, resting his head on his hands as he scoots himself to a dry area of the boulder.

“Hey Fee.”

Fielding lazily opens his eyes.  “Yeah?”

“You remember that one time we went out into the forest behind my house?”  Killian smiles, twisting a lock of hair around his fingers.  “And we climbed to the top of that old oak tree?”

“You mean the one next to the cliff?”

Killian laughs.  “Yeah, that one.  And we got to the top, and looked out over the whole forest?  I swear, you could see _everything_.”  His smile fades, lost in old memories.  “The trees…the lakes…the river…and all the little houses scattered here and there.”

Fielding looks over and brushes his hand over Killian’s.  “When we’re done here, I promise we can go back and watch the sunrise up in that tree.”  Fielding smiles.  “I know you’ve always wanted to do that.  Plus, if we make good time, we’ll have a break next week.”

Killian grins, stretching out his arms.  “I’d like that.”

They lie in the sun, soaking up the warmth of the afternoon with a light nap.

As the shadows grow longer, their haven of heated rock grows cool, and they soon rouse from their sleep.  They shake out the remaining dampness from their hair, and find their clothes by the beach.

After dressing, they return to camp, finding Olynn reading a medicinal journal and Bufford sanding a wooden horse.  Olynn greets them with a slight incline of his head, while Bufford ignores them completely, too absorbed in his work to notice much else.

Fielding and Killian seat themselves by the cold fire pit, Killian swinging his feet while Fielding idly picks at his fingers.  They sit in silence, enjoying the sunlight and the gentle breeze of midday.

Finally, Killian turns to Fielding, leaning back on the log.

"Hey Fee, wanna check out the stuff we found yesterday?  Your guys' swords looked pretty fuckin' sweet."

Fielding shrugs.  "Sure, and we could sort them out a bit while we're at it.  It'll save us some time later."

Killian nods, and they rise from the old log, stretching a bit before crossing the camp to Thorne's tent.  Killian pushes back the front flap, Fielding lazily trailing behind.  They reach the center table where the artifacts lie in a jumbled heap.

"Damn, Oriel must've been in quite the rush to have left everything like..." Killian gestures at the mess of plastic bags.  "...this."

"If you complained, he'd probably feel so bad he'd bake you a pie."

"Mmm, guilt pie, my favorite."

They stand on opposite sides of the table and divide the artifacts by tomb, splitting them into three sections across the aged wood.  Killian pulls up a chair and seats himself in it, kicking his feet up onto the table.  He grabs one of the bags, studying the small knife within.

“Damn, this stuff's _detailed_.”

Fielding sifts through the mass of plastic, carefully placing the elven blade in the center pile.  He pulls out a smaller bag filled with slim bits of metal, only slightly rusted from age.

“Any idea what these were for?”

Killian leans forward, twirling the knife in his hands through the plastic.  His brows furrow in concentration, studying their shape and design of the metal pieces.  He lifts a hand to turn the bag over slightly, clicking his tongue.

“Huh.  It sorta looks like they were arrow tips, but only a couple are fully intact.  Most of them are either crumpled or broken.”

Fielding rolls his eyes.  “Well if they were arrows, it’s likely that they were fired at things.”  He lowers his head, eyes wide and serious.  “When stuff hits other stuff, it goes _pthhhl_.”  He makes a crumbling gesture with his hands, tongue sticking out of his mouth as he supplies the proper sound effect.  Killian shoves him back with a grin.

“You’re such an asshole.”

“Right back atchya sweet cheeks.”

“Oh Mr. Darcy, I do _declare_.”  Killian titters in a thick southern drawl, batting his eyelashes dramatically.

Fielding barks out a laugh, pushing Killian’s feet off the table before returning to the pile of unsorted artifacts.  Killian snatches away a small throwing axe, running his hand down the blunt side.  He traces the intricate runes that line the handle with an intrigued look upon his face.  Fielding sighs.

“Are you even going to _pretend_  to help?”

Killian scoffs, eyes still roaming over the angular edges of the axe.  With another roll of his eyes, Fielding places two artifacts in the pile to the right.  As he organizes the bags, his fingers brush something smooth and cool.  He grasps it with one hand, holding it up to the light.  The stone shines in the sunlight, casting facets of pale blue and gold light about the tent.  Killian looks up.

“Uhh…shouldn’t that be in something?”

Fielding shrugs, turning the stone over in his hands, admiring the swirling colors beneath the surface.

“Oriel must’ve sketched this one and forgot to put it back.”

Killian leans to the side, chair balancing on one leg, and sifts through the bags until he finds an empty one.  Quickly checking the label, he hands it to Fielding, who gives him a slight nod before placing the stone back into its bag and into its proper pile.

Killian chews his lip idly, resting his head on his hands, and looks up at Fielding.  He watches him, golden hair loosely tied in a knot at the base of his neck, still slightly damp from their afternoon swim.

“Hey Fee.”

“Yeah?”

“When we get back home, can we go stargazing in the fields?  We haven’t done that in _years_.”

Fielding smiles fondly, still sorting the artifacts, nostalgia tugging at his chest.  “Only if we catch fireflies after.”  He turns suddenly, pointing fiercely.  “ _And_  we have to make a blanket fort.  That shit’s a sacred ritual that must be honored.  No exceptions.”

Killian stands sharply, kicking his chair over with a loud clatter.  He kneels, head bowed, one hand on his thigh, the other a fist on the ground.  “My lord, nothing shall stand in the way of the ceremony.  Only the finest blankets and the fluffiest pillows shall be used.”  He grabs a butter knife from the dirty dishes pile, spinning it deftly between his fingers.  “By my sword, my lord, no snuggie shall make it through our lines.”

Fielding laughs, warm and hearty, shaking his fists at the heavens.  “Oh, the accursed snuggie!  May it and all its knock-offs fall before my blade!”

“I swear on my life, my lord, by morrow’s end, there shall be no snuggie, nor slanket, nor fuzzy wuzzy to poison our lands!”

The faint scuffing of boots sounds outside the tent.  They freeze.

“You lads in there?”

Killian’s eyes dart to Fielding.  “...Yeah...?”

Botolf enters the tent, pushing aside the flap, turning his head in order to fit the bent flaps of his hat through.  He smiles and nods his head at the two, who return the gesture.  Killian checks his watch quickly.

“You’re back early, did you guys finish working?”

Botolf shakes his head and gingerly lifts his left leg.  “Nah, the old knee’s been acting up again, so Burton helped me back.  Didn’t want to slow down the group later, and to tell you the truth...”  He leans in a touch closer,  “I’m not a big fan of the place at night.”

They nod in agreement, and Botolf straightens up.  “I was just wondering if you two had eaten, I’m gonna make us all a proper lunch.”

Fielding and Killian visibly brighten at that.  Killian nearly jumps in excitement.  “That’s fantastic!  Counting yesterday, all we’ve had are apples, soup and marshmallows!”

Fielding visibly shudders at the memory.  “Do you need any help with lunch?  I might have something in my bag if you need anything.”

Botolf waves a hand.  “I think we’re alright, Burton has some beef stew, and we’ve still got some of Norwood’s sausages from the holidays.”

Killian stifles a snort and Fielding sharply elbows him in the side.

Laughing, Botolf waves and moves to exit the tent.  “Anyways, I’ll call you over when lunch is ready.”

He stiffly walks outside, the scuffing of his boots growing progressively fainter.

The two of them watch the flap of the tent in silence for a moment before breaking into raucous laughter.

Killian is near hysterical.  “Holy fucking _shit_!  He, he walked in on my death sentence to fucking _snuggies_!”

Fielding falls ungracefully to the floor, shaking uncontrollably.  Killian fights to catch his breath, eventually composing himself enough to speak again.  He straightens and coughs, voice slightly rough.

“How about we go sit in the sun for a while?  We still have a couple hours of light left.”

Fielding smiles up at Killian from the floor.  “Sure, I’ve got a couple books I’d like to catch up on.”

“Awesome!  Meet you by the clearing when you get off your fat ass.”

Killian darts out of the tent as Fielding shouts “My ass is pure muscle!”

He lies on the floor in silence, listening to the sound of Killian’s receding footsteps before pushing himself up, using the table to help him to his feet.

Fielding quickly pushes the artifacts from the edge of the table, spreading the piles further apart from each other.  His hand drifts to a small bag that glints slightly in the low light, and he pulls it from one of the piles.  Inside is the hair clasp with its winding design etched into the metal.

He hesitates for a moment, fingers running over the design lightly, before he hastily pockets the plastic bag and turns to exit the tent.

Fielding blinks in the light, sun low in the sky, casting warm rays of gold across the camp.  He walks over to his tent, sifting through his duffel bag and removing two well-worn books from them.  He straightens and heads towards the clearing.

Killian is already seated in the grass, his bare legs outstretched while his arms support his torso.  His eyes are closed, and his face is a peaceful shade of contentment.  Fielding smiles and quietly seats himself beside Killian.  He sighs contentedly as he runs his bare feet through the cool grass, reveling in the feel of the soft earth beneath.

He taps Killian’s side lightly with the back of his hand.  Killian lazily opens his eyes, as if waking from a light sleep.  He smiles, then lies back, folding his hands behind his head.

Fielding shifts around and positions himself perpendicular to Killian, gently setting his head down on his stomach, eliciting a soft laugh from him.  He opens the smaller of the two books, turning it towards the sunlight as he begins to read.

A light breeze tugs at their hair, and Killian tilts his head back, letting the cool air wash over his face.  The grass bends and and sways with the wind, rippling in curved patterns across the clearing.  Killian closes his eyes and smiles, the warmth of the sun pleasant on his skin.  His thoughts begin to wander, hazily acknowledging the tickle of Fielding’s hair on his stomach and the heat of the sun upon his face.

The sounds of the world grow more prominent; the gurgle of the river nearby, the chatter of the birds in the trees, the whispering of the grasses in the wind, and the crisp slide of the pages in Fielding’s book all blend together into a song that threads through the earth and the sky.  Killian smiles lazily, and hums a graceful harmony that seamlessly weaves through the melody.

Fielding feels the vibrations through Killian’s abdomen, thrumming gently in rising and falling tones that seem to ebb and flow like the tides of the ocean.  As his breathing slows, his body grows numb and hazy, only the feel of Killian’s humming and the soft touch of the breeze registering in his mind.  His eyes flutter shut.

The book soon slides, forgotten, from Fielding’s loose hands, landing softly in his lap.

They sleep in the warmth of the dying sunlight, and in the cool, soft grass of the clearing.  The sky bleeds red as the sun dips lower on the horizon, and the earth sings on.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fucking snuggies


	4. Through Grass and Stone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Links are in the endnotes, as usual!
> 
> Also, if you'd like to see updates, previews, songs, etc. of the story, go here: http://khyeili.tumblr.com/tagged/mmateotw

The grass is cool as it bends beneath his feet.

The tattered hem of his tunic, a hand-me-down two sizes too big, flutters loosely about his knees as his legs carry him like a leaf upon the breeze, the world a blur around him.

He inhales deeply, the air crisp and cool in his chest.  The grass grows thinner as he runs on, and soon his feet touch only dirt, soft and gentle like sleepy mornings and shared smiles.

He reaches a great cliff, the edge sharp and sudden, reaching down, down to the bottom of the earth nestled in the seams of the mountains.  Powdery snow caps the jagged peaks and wispy clouds kiss their sides as they lazily wander through the canyon.

A chill ripples through his body as he looks out around him, no greenery in sight, only the rock and stone and sky.  His tunic catches the wind and tugs him forward as he toes the edge of the cliff.  He steps back, and with a rush of excited anticipation he leaps forward into the currents of the sky.  He hurtles through the clouds and falls into the warm embrace of the earth, which welcomes him like an old friend.

A voice reaches for him, resonating through the ancient stone and the world shifts, his feet once again carrying him, scampering over worn wooden floors.  He follows the gentle lilting melody of the comforting voice, strong and powerful like the great stone halls of his fathers, yet soothing and familiar.

The blurry sounds slowly shift into focus, forming words in the song that make his chest swell with a pleasant, nostalgic warmth and an unconditional love that flows through his body with such ferocity that it feels like he’s only now discovered how to breathe.  


_Inùdoyuh ûrzudul, inùdoyuh lomilul_

_Inùdôyuh melhekhel_  


He reaches a fireplace, the embers glowing bright and gentle.  The heavy thud of boots fall behind him and he turns, a dirty apron and scuffed shoes skirting about the edges of his vision.

  
_Oshmâkhi ra’ udnîni mênu umkhûhimênu hôfukel ni zesulul kâminul_   


He extends his arm, now smaller and pudgier than he had remembered, and the world shifts as he’s picked up and tossed into the air, a delighted squeal erupting from his throat.

_  
Ibindukhizu ra’ tashnikizu uznâlh_

_Uggûnimênu tashfabimênu hôfukîth_  


Strong, gentle arms surround him and he feels safe, protected, like nothing can touch him, and the only thing he feels is love and contentment and the song weaving through his being. 

_  
Ambr inùdoyuh_

_Mukhuh Mahal bakhuz murukhzu_

_Inùdoyuh ûrzudul, inùdoyuh lomilul_  


He exhales and his chest opens up and a melody, _his_  melody flows forth in a harmony with the other voice that seemed to embrace his with kindness and adoration.

For the first time in what seems like forever, he feels at home.

A sleepy smile crosses his face and he feels light, the body beside his softly fading away with the wooden walls and the crackling fireplace.

As the song dims and falls away, another melody, another voice comes forth in shades of summer soldiers and golden fields and their harmony fits together like two pieces of a puzzle, two parts of a whole, as if they were built for one another and it’s _beautiful_.  He reaches for it, fingers outstretched, but it keeps shifting, changing, falling between his fingers like sand and he can’t _quite_ touch it.

He drifts in the waves of their music as his body grows distant, and sings.

 

* * *

 

Whistling cheerfully, he carefully pours the hot stew one by one into the tin bowls and plates the sausages beside them.  Botolf taps the ladle on the edge of the pot before resting it across, mindful not to spill any into the coals.  Leaving the others for the rest of the company, he picks up two plates and leaves the campfire.

With a slight limp, he carries them over to the clearing, smiling fondly at the sleeping boys.  Botolf quietly places the plates on a flat rock nearby.  He chuckles as Fielding kicks a little in his slumber.  He picks up the open book on Fielding’s chest and closes it, placing it on top of the other in the grass.

“You two are cats, I swear.” Botolf says to himself quietly.  “Y’can sleep anywhere.  Wouldn’t be surprised to see you napping on the tombs themselves!”

He straightens, then returns to the campfire.  Careful not to spill anything, he grabs three more plates and brings them over to Olynn, Burton, and Bufford.  They accept their plates with smiles and nods of gratitude.

“Are y’ joining us lad?”

Botolf shakes his head.  “Sorry Biff, I’ve got a bit of carving to finish.  The commissioner wants it finished by next week, and she won’t budge on it!”

“Ah,” Bufford laughs. “Can’t be helped.  Best of luck, though I’m sure you don’t need it.  You’re the best there is!”

Botolf grins and takes his own plate into his tent, placing it on his sleeping bag.

The tent is nearly as big as Thorne’s, though not quite as furnished.  He needed the space, as his stone working materials require a good bit of elbow room.  The tent is high enough for even Darwin to stand comfortably, with small mesh windows on either side.  The entrance stretches across the entire front side of the tent (he needed an easy way to get his tools inside) with a zipper running down the middle, though usually he opts to let the flaps hang loose when the breeze is warm and comfortable.

He pulls out a chair and sits at the large, firm table near the back of the tent.  Sifting through the bag open wide upon the table, he pulls out a leather sheath and a block of marble.  Botolf removes a knife from the leather and it glints sharply in the light.

He sits back in his chair and begins to carve.

 

* * *

 

His eyes flutter open, sleep falling away like raindrops on leaves.  The sunlight streaming through the trees has lessened, the sunny spot in the clearing now half-obscured by shadow.

Moving up to sit, he is suddenly made aware of the blonde weight on his stomach.  He smiles at Fielding, face far younger and more carefree in sleep.  Killian carefully extracts himself from the role of a pillow, and delicately places Fielding’s head upon the grass.

He stands, brushing off the back of his jeans.  Killian spots the stew and sausages and grabs a plate, shoveling food into his mouth as he exits the clearing.

He heads towards Botolf’s tent, passing Bufford, Burton, and Olynn on the way.  Killian pushes aside the tent flap with his shoulder, shielding his plate with his arm.

Botolf turns, a smile blossoming across his face.

“Ah Killian, you’re up!  I thought you two’d be sleeping at _least_  ‘till tomorrow.”

Killian snorts.  “Yeah, we’ve kinda been lazy asses today, haven’t we?”

Botolf leans back in his chair and shrugs.  “It’s your day off, who’s to say you can’t sleep through all of it if you wish?”

“True that.”

Botolf twirls the knife in his hand before returning to his work, carefully chipping away bits of stone.  Killian takes another slurp of his stew before stepping forward, observing the chunk of rock in Botolf’s hands.

“What’re you doing, exactly?”

“Stone carving.  This,” he gestures to the faceted stone with his knife, “is going to be a wolf.”

Killian whistles.  “Cool!”  He leans over for a closer look at the shimmering knife, setting his plate down on the floor.  “Hey, what’s that made out of?”

Botolf places the stone back onto the table, turning towards Killian and holding up the knife.

“This fella’s got quite the story behind ‘im.  My family owned a good amount of land in the mountains where they used to mine quite a bit.  There were a few abandoned mines there, and as a blossoming archaeologist at the ripe old age of seventeen, I set out to excavate the place.”  He loosely flips the knife.  “I found a vein of this down there.  It’s called white diamond, and it’s as hard and tough as anything, but glitters like nothin’ else.  I sold a bunch of it to help my family out, and made the rest into a knife for myself.”  He shrugs.  “I liked carving things, figured a good knife would be valuable.”

“Shit, that’s awesome!  How do you work with it?”

Botolf leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees.  Killian moves to sit cross-legged before him.

“The knife’s got two main edges, the long side and the tip.  Both work like chisels, more or less, so you just put the edge up against the stone, and hit either the blunt side of the blade or the base of the handle with a mallet to chip away parts of the rock.  You use the long side for larger facets, and the tip for detail work.”

Botolf hands Killian the blade, hilt first.  He holds it up to the light and examines the delicate grooves that run down its edges.

The blade itself is a pale, cloudy white that splits the sunlight into shimmering specks scattered around the tent.  He slaps the flat side against his palm.

“How strong is it?”

Botolf laughs loudly, pushing himself up to stand.  “I think it’s about time I showed you my party trick!”

Killian grins widely, handing back the knife and following Botolf outside.  He leads them to a large rock face protruding from the side of a small hill.

Botolf holds the knife loosely by the handle, lightly bouncing it in his hand.

With a sudden swiftness, he flings it, swinging his arm and snapping his wrist sharply.  It hurtles through the air before embedding itself in the stone with a hard _thunk_.

Killian jumps. “Whoa!”  He runs over to the rock face, Botolf laughing behind.

The knife sits sturdily in the stone, more than three inches deep.  Killian wraps a hand around the handle and tugs, but it does not budge.

“Holy _shit!_ ”  Killian cries, bracing his foot against the boulder in an attempt to free the blade.  It doesn’t move for a few moments, until it slides free with a clean, metallic ring.  He inspects the knife.  “It doesn’t even have a scratch!”

Botolf grins widely, dimples in his cheeks.  “It’s like nothin’ else!  Hardest, toughest, prettiest thing I’ve ever come across.”  He laughs, gently elbowing Killian’s side.  “No wonder I’m single.”

Killian cackles loudly, handing back the knife.  They return to Botolf’s tent, the gravelly earth crunching softly beneath their feet.

 

* * *

 

The grand hall is cool and sweet in its silence, the only sound his bare feet against the stone floor.  The colors of the room sway and bleed together as he walks steadily forward.

He brushes his hand against the smooth stone of the far-left tomb.  Warmth and contentment run lazily up his arm, as if greeting a long-expected guest.

He sits upon the steps, leaning back against the front of the tomb.  He closes his eyes, breathing evenly as the peace of summer evenings seeps through his being like water on a cloth.

A lilting melody weaves its way through the solid walls and carved arches.  It winds around the room, unable to stay still.  The design upon the ceiling begins to shift and move, and the warriors dance on high to the music, the figures of the mosaic on the wall soon following suit.  They swing their axes, their hammers, their swords, and stamp their feet with metallic shouts and roars.

He looks up, the soft light through the stained glass giving the dancing figures an ethereal glow.  

The melody circles him, once, twice, three times.  It is bright and energetic, wild and free like nothing else.  Unlike the hall of stone, however, it is not soft and slow, lazily drifting, but sharp and energetic, jumping about, unable to stay still.

He becomes aware of his own voice echoing about the empty room, calling to the tune with a melancholic admiration of the setting sun.

The melody shifts, soon melting together with his own, and the combined music envelops him, filling the cracks and holes in his soul until he is overflowing with the thrill, the _rush_  of being alive.

He lets his head fall back against the side of the tomb, breathing in sunshine and sorrow as he watches the dancing figures upon the ceiling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reference for Botolf's Knife: http://khyeili.tumblr.com/post/54310162464/botolfs-knife-made-of-white-diamond-from  
> Link to the song: http://khyeili.tumblr.com/post/54310156942/the-song-for-the-chapter-through-grass-and-stone
> 
> Translation:
> 
> My son of the sun, my son of the night,  
> My sons of the king of all kings,  
> I will guard and guide you so you may find the joy of all joys in this lonely earth  
> May you fire your arrows and rip apart those who do evil,  
> May you return with only the joys of youth.  
> Sleep my sons.  
> May Mahal's hammer shield you  
> My son of the sun, my son of the night.  
> \--
> 
> Direct/rough translation:
> 
> My sun-like son, my night-like son,  
> My sons of the king of all kings  
> I will guard and guide you  
> You will find the joy of all joys in lonely earth  
> You will shoot arrows and rip apart evildoers  
> You will return with the joys that are young  
> Sleep my sons  
> May Mahal's hammer shield you  
> My sun-like son, my night-like son  
> \--
> 
> Holy shit, I spent a lot of time writing this song.  
> One of these days I should just actually learn neo-Khuzdûl instead of spending a week crash-coursing it and hoping that the grammar isn't too atrocious.


End file.
